Beggar's belief

 

Jo and I are just back from a week in Corfu. Last Sunday, we walked the coastal path from Nissaki to the picturesque Kalami Bay. Here the foothills of the Pantokrator tumble into the sea through groves of olive trees too numerous to count, each one, seemingly, the kingdom of a robin, that most territorial of songbirds. The path itself, strewn on both sides with cyclamen, spears of striking pink against the dark green, is rarely level, but rises and falls, falls and rises again.

The biographer Mark records the account of a man by the roadside, as Jesus was leaving Jericho (Mark 10.46-52). We are told that the man has lost sight, literally, of what is most precious. He now finds himself at the lowest point, for Jericho is the lowest inhabited place on the face of the earth, and this man is sitting by the road that leads out and even further down. This is, it turns out, exactly where he needs to be.

But what, or rather, whom, has this man lost sight of? The first answer to this question is, he has lost sight of Jesus. And yet, all is not lost, for, here, at the lowest point, he is aware of what he has lost and needs to regain. Here, he sees with renewed clarity what is at stake. And here, he cries out for mercy, taking upon himself the identity of a beggar.

The man calls Jesus, Son, or descendant, of David, that most renowned king who reigned over the golden age of Israel. And in response, Jesus stood still, stopped in his tracks. What has this man seen, this seemingly blind beggar, who sees what his own apprentices have failed to see, again and again? Call him here, Jesus says, and the crowd understand that this call strengthens the heart. Raises the dead, even.

The man leaps up, throwing off his cloak, throwing overboard the guise of a beggar, and stands before Jesus, who asks, What do you want me to do for you?

What do you want me to do for you? Is it not obvious? No. It is never obvious what someone else wants, or needs. It is not a thing to be assumed, but, rather, to be heard, and Jesus stands still, holds space for this to happen.

Master, let me see again. Go, says Jesus, your faith has made you well.

But the man does not go, not from Jesus. Rather, he goes with him, on the Way, that leads to Jerusalem, up, up, rising out of the rift valley, the road climbing far above, to a rock that looks like a skull, a place of execution.

What insight does the man regain? First, he sees Jesus, sees him for who he really is, sees him in a way that his own closest apprentices have yet to grasp.

But there is more. For in seeing Jesus for who he is, the Son of the Highly Exulted King, the man regains a clarity of sight into his own identity. For he is Bartimaeus, the Son of Timaeus. Bartimaeus means Son of Timaeus, which is to say, Mark names him twice over, to underline the fact. This man truly is the Son of Timaeus, or, as Timaeus means, the Son of the Highly Valued One.

Which is to say that Jesus and Bartimaeus see one another as when one looks in a mirror. The Son of the Highly Valued One sees himself, for the first time in who knows how long, in the eyes of the Son of the Highly Exulted King.

For when we see Jesus for who he truly is, there we also receive the gift of seeing ourselves as who we truly are. Who we are, but have forgotten, somewhere along the way.

The way up must first lead us down. And even the up on the far side of down leads to the cross, to death, and resurrection beyond, in this world as well as the next.

To know yourself you must be willing to take up the outer garment of a beggar, one crying out for mercy at the lowest point of all. And then, though only then, having encountered the living Mercy of God, you must be willing to throw that garment off, to throw that whole identity overboard. For at the most fundamental level of all, you are not a beggar at all, but highly valued, and the son or daughter of the Highly Valued One.

When did you lose sight of this, of the love of God for you and of your very life, your one, precious, unrepeatable, valuable beyond understanding, life?